by Catherine Bowman

    Old fang-in-the-boot trick. Five-chambered

    asp. Pit organ and puff¹ adder². Can live

    in any medium save ice. Charmed by the flute³

    or the first thunderstorm in spring， drowsy⁴

    heart stirs from the cistern⁵， the hibernaculum，

    the wintering den⁶ of stars. Smells like the cucumber

    served chilled on chipped Blue Willow⁷. Her garden

    of clings， sugars， snaps， and strings⁸. Her creamy breasts

    we called pillows and her bird legs and fat fingers

    covered with diamonds from the mines in Africa.

    The smell of cucumber…… Her mystery roses……

    Heading out Bandera to picnic and pick corn，

    the light so expert that for miles

    you can tell a turkey vulture

    from a hawk⁹ by the quiver in the wing.

    Born on April Fools'， died on Ground Hog's，

    he pulls over not to piss but to blow away

    any diamondback unlucky enough to be

    on the road between San Antonio and Cotulla.

    Squinting¹⁰ from the back of the pickup¹¹

    into chrome and sun and shotgun confection，

    my five boy cousins who love me more

    than all of Texas and drink my spit

    from a bottle of Big Red on a regular basis

    know what the bejeweled and the gun-loading

    have long since forgotten. And that is：

    Snakes don't die. They just play dead. The heart

    exposed to so many scrapes， bruises¹²， burns，

    and bites sheds its skin， sprouts¹³ wings and fl ies，

    becomes the two-for-one sparkler on

    the Fourth of July， becomes what's slung¹⁴ between

    azure¹⁵ and cornfield： the horizon.

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